Neighborhood Odes, Page 2

  Slowly, warm air sucking

  Into the rolled-down windows

  Of our Chevy, the

  Sharpest one on the block.

  As we enter

  The park we drive

  In circles. Papá

  Taps his thumb

  Against the horn

  When he sees friends

  And their families

  Gathered around barbecues.

  They wave and we wave.

  I often think,

  They’re drinking sodas

  And eating chips

  Without us.

  Papá finds our place.

  Parking the car,

  He goes back and forth

  Until it’s just right.

  He revs the engine,

  A cloud of blue smoke

  From the tailpipe,

  And cuts it off.

  We all pile out

  Of the back seat,

  Lourdes and María,

  And baby Alex

  With his Tinkertoys

  Wet with drool.

  I help Mamá with

  The aluminum chairs,

  The hibachi, the

  Ice chest with

  Its treasure of cold, cold ice.

  I like looking at fire.

  Papá starts the hibachi

  With a pile of briquets

  And bark from

  The eucalyptus,

  Those tall trees

  They say drink

  Like elephants.

  Wind shoves smoke in

  My face, stinging

  My eyes. I blink

  And cough. I sneeze

  As I get away.

  And I like getting away.

  I like walking alone

  In the park,

  A stick in my hand,

  Imagining a hundred arrows

  In my side.

  One time I did

  Get lost. I was six then,

  A little taller

  Than our dog Queenie,

  And I walked around

  The pink-colored

  Restrooms, past the

  Monkey bars and

  The train tracks,

  Where sparrows

  Hopped on and off

  The shiny rails.

  I walked until I

  Was lost. When I tried

  To get back,

  I kept going to

  The wrong picnic

  Table: the families

  Looked like my family,

  With lots of kids

  And smoke from the hibachi

  Stinging everyone’s eyes.

  When I called, “Mamá! Mamá!”

  A woman looked up. Her eyes

  Were wet, not from laughter,

  But from breathing in smoke.

  I don’t know how

  I got back, but I did.

  See, it’s a Sunday now

  And I’m hot from playing soccer

  With my sister. We sit

  On the picnic table,

  Swinging our legs

  And looking for

  Something easy to do.

  Lourdes, my older sister,

  Wants to play

  A game, a contest

  Of who can keep

  A hand in ice.

  We throw open

  The ice chest,

  And counting one, two, three,

  Plunge our hands

  Into the ice.

  Lourdes looks at me,

  And I look at her,

  And even though we’re cold

  Sweat beads our brows.

  I count thirty-one, thirty-two… .

  My hand comes up first,

  Pink as a starfish,

  Then plunges back

  Into the ice for cream sodas,

  A winner after all.

  ODE TO MIGATO

  He’s white

  As spilled milk,

  My cat who sleeps

  With his belly

  Turned toward

  The summer sky.

  He loves the sun,

  Its warmth like a hand.

  He loves tuna cans

  And milk cartons

  With their dribble

  Of milk. He loves

  Mom when she rattles

  The bag of cat food,

  The brown nuggets

  Raining into his bowl.

  And my cat loves

  Me, because I saved

  Him from a dog,

  Because I dressed him

  In a hat and a cape

  For Halloween,

  Because I dangled

  A sock of chicken skin

  As he stood on his

  Hind legs. I love mi gato,

  Porque I found

  Him on the fender

  Of an abandoned car.

  He was a kitten,

  With a meow

  Like the rusty latch

  On a gate. I carried

  Him home in the loop

  Of my arms.

  I poured milk

  Into him, let him

  Lick chunks of

  Cheese from my palms,

  And cooked huevo

  After huevo

  Until his purring

  Engine kicked in

  And he cuddled

  Up to my father’s slippers.

  That was last year.

  This spring,

  He’s excellent at sleeping

  And no good

  At hunting. At night

  All the other cats

  In the neighborhood

  Can see him slink

  Around the corner,

  Or jump from the tree

  Like a splash of

  Milk. We lap up

  His love and

  He laps up his welcome.

  ODE TO MY LIBRARY

  It’s small

  With two rooms

  Of books, a globe

  That I once

  Dropped, some maps

  Of the United States and México,

  And a fish tank with

  A blue fish that

  Is always making jeta.

  There are tables and chairs,

  And a pencil sharpener

  On the wall: a crayon is stuck

  In it, but I didn’t do it.

  It’s funny, but the

  Water fountain

  Is cooled by a motor,

  And the librarian reads

  Books with her

  Glasses hanging

  From her neck. If she

  Put them on

  She would see me

  Studying the Incas

  Who lived two steps

  From heaven, way in the mountains.

  The place says, “Quiet, please,”

  But three birds

  Talk to us

  Loudly from the window.

  What’s best is this:

  A phonograph

  That doesn’t work.

  When I put on the headphones,

  I’m the captain of a jet,

  And my passengers

  Are mis abuelitos

  Coming from a dusty ranch

  In Monterrey. I want

  To fly them to California,

  But then walk

  Them to my library.

  I want to show them

  The thirty books I devoured

  In the summer read-a-thon.

  I want to show them

  The mural I helped paint.

  In the mural,

  An Aztec warrior

  Is standing on a mountain

  With a machete

  And a band of feathers

  On his noble head.

  I made the cuts

  Of muscle on

  His stomach

  And put a boulder

  Of strength in each arm.

  He could gather

  Enough firewood

  With one fist.

  He
could slice

  Open a mountain

  With that machete,

  And with the wave of his arm

  Send our enemies tumbling.

  If I could fly,

  I would bring

  Mis abuelitos to California.

  They would touch my hair

  When I showed

  Them my library:

  The fish making jeta,

  The globe that I dropped,

  The birds fluttering

  Their wings at the window.

  They would stand me

  Between them,

  When I showed them

  My thirty books,

  And the cuts

  On the warrior,

  Our family of people.

  ODE TO LA PIÑATA

  It sways

  In the tree

  In the yard,

  This paper pig

  Bloated with

  Candies, this

  Piñata my father

  Bought and hung

  On a low branch.

  I’m Rachel.

  Today’s my birthday.

  If six fingers

  Go up, that’s how

  Old I am. I’m going

  To strike the

  Piñata six times,

  And then let my

  Six guests swing

  A broom at the pig.

  Dad works the rope.

  Mom blindfolds me

  With a dish towel

  And turns me six times,

  My lucky number

  For my lucky day.

  When she stops,

  I keep going,

  Dizzy and sick —

  Inside my belly

  A merry-go-round

  Of hot dog, chips,

  Pink lemonade,

  And cake with ice cream.

  I stagger and swing.

  I fall to a knee,

  Rise, and swing again.

  I’m more dizzy

  Than when I started,

  And then, wham,

  The stick explodes

  Against the piñata.

  My friends laugh

  And squeal, and I hit

  It again, the first

  Rain of candies.

  I pull away

  The dish towel, dazed

  By the sunlight.

  I give the stick

  To a friend,

  And more candies

  Rain to the ground,

  Kisses and jawbreakers,

  Tootsie Rolls like

  Chocolate worms.

  My six friends

  All take a turn,

  And then baby brother

  From his stroller

  Whacks a plastic bat —

  Candies rain down,

  And by magic, one falls

  Into his squealing mouth.

  ODE TO A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

  A dirty cloud of sheep

  On the hill,

  Their faces

  Nibbling grass

  Wet with rain.

  The sheep drink

  And eat, their buds

  Of tongues

  Gathering up the wet world.

  If they looked up,

  Their faces would be green

  With blades of grass.

  If they took a step,

  Their hooves would

  Bury the ant,

  Little pilgrim of crust

  And fallen bread.

  We love sheep.

  We love the fatness

  Of wool, the itch

  Of something warm to wear.

  So man tugs on a sock,

  And this is sheep.

  So woman puts on a coat,

  And this is sheep.

  So child slips on a hat,

  And this is sheep.

  We’re closer to the country

  Than we think,

  As close as a snowy fingertip

  Of glove on the table,

  The frayed knot of a robe

  In the closet,

  The musty sleeve of a sweater

  Sleeping with its arms crossed

  In a drawer.

  We love these sheep.

  They stood for us,

  Heavy with wool,

  As they moved like a dirty cloud

  Over the hill

  Where the rain last fell.

  ODE TO EL GUITARRÓN

  All summer

  It has stood

  In the closet,

  This guitarrón

  That’s as big

  As a washtub

  Or a fat uncle.

  Now that my

  Mom and dad are gone,

  I take it out

  And run a finger

  Of dust

  From its throat.

  I carry it

  To the living room.

  I place it

  Between my legs

  Like a cello

  And thump

  The strings.

  Dust shakes

  From the lamp.

  Dust lets go of

  My model airplane

  On the TV.

  Dust falls from

  The ceiling

  Where spiders breed

  In shadowy corners.

  I thump all

  Five strings and

  Scare my cat Negrito,

  Who jumps from

  The couch and onto

  The windowsill

  In the kitchen.

  When he looks back,

  I thump the guitarrón

  With all the heart

  Of five skinny fingers.

  The cat falls

  Like a paper sack

  Of fruit.

  I go to the window

  And watch Negrito

  Race across our lawn

  And climb the fence

  In two blurry leaps.

  I thump some more,

  A buzz of music

  Rattling my chest.

  The neighbor kids

  With candies

  In their mouths

  Come running

  To ask, “¿Qué es?”

  “Música,” I tell them

  With pride. “Do you want

  Another song?” They

  Nod their heads yes,

  The blood of

  Chocolate running

  From the corners

  Of their mouths.

  I breathe in a lot

  Of good fresh

  Saturday air

  And let my

  Fingers run like

  A wild crab

  Across the strings.

  The music rattles

  The window and

  Scares the cat out

  Of one of its lives

  As it drops

  From the fence.

  I play so hard

  That our deaf neighbor

  Señor Martínez

  Shudders from

  His sleep on the porch

  Of fat-eared cacti.

  He staggers over,

  His cane tapping

  The ground.

  I notice a leaf

  In his hair the color

  Of wintry twigs.

  His sweater is

  Buttoned all wrong

  And he could choke himself

  If he’s not careful.

  He says, “Dámelo,”

  And I hand

  Him the guitarrón

  Through the window.

  He starts to thump

  The strings

  So that the noise

  Is real music

  And my cat Negrito

  Returns to sit

  On the fence.

  He sings, “Ay, ay,

  Mi Vida …”

  And the kids

  Just stare at him.

  They wipe their

  Dirty faces

  And say, “Qué bueno.”

  Señor Martínez

&
nbsp; Staggers back

  To his porch

  For more sleep.

  Negrito claws

  His way back

  Onto the fence,

  His eyes shiny

  As marbles.

  When I start

  To thump the strings

  Again, my cat

  Falls off, scared.

  I think it was his ninth life.

  I’ll find out later

  When I hold out

  A fist of cat food

  And call

  Here, kittykittykitty.

  ODE TO FIREWORKS

  On Fourth of July,

  When it’s not yet dark,

  I’m a diablito

  With a sparkler.

  I run around

  The yard,

  Chasing our rooster,

  Who gives up

  Feathers and screams.

  Then it’s my turn

  To run around

  As my big brother,

  With a haircut like devil horns,

  Chases me with a firecracker.

  “Ándale,” he yells,

  “I’m gonna blow you up.”

  Of course, he won’t —

  He’s my brother

  And I owe him two bucks.

  So we each get

  A fistful of sparklers,

  Firecrackers,

  A paper log cabin

  That smokes and fizzes,

  Rockets that shower sparks

  About the height

  Of the clothesline.

  We get three seconds

  Of pinwheels, whistling banshees,

  Some cones and pyramids

  That stink but won’t work,

  And black pills

  That vomit snakes

  Of ash. I touch

  The ash, and the snake crumbles

  And won’t bite. Of course

  When we finish,

  It’s not yet dark.

  We’re mad for not waiting.

  I punch him in the arm

  And he punches me back.

  We climb onto the roof,

  My brother first,

  And we watch the sky

  For rockets. Planes fly by,

  Blinking red lights.

  A gnat buzzes my ear.

  A TV goes on in the neighbor’s house.

  We wait and wait,

  And then they come —

  The fireworks from kids

  Who saved up for night.

  ODE TO WEIGHT LIFTING

  Tony eats apples

  On Saturday morning,

  Two for each arm,

  And one for the backs

  Of his calves.

  He’s twelve

  And a weight lifter in his garage.

  He bites into an apple,

  And, chewing,

  He curls weights —

  One, two, three …

  His face reddens,

  And a blue vein

  Deepens on his neck —

  Four, five, six …

  Sweat inches down

  His cheek. A curl of

  Hair falls in his face —

  Seven, eight, nine …

  He grunts and strains —

  Ten, eleven, twelve!

  Tony curls his age,

  And he would curl his weight

  Of 83 pounds, but he